


Farewell and Adieu (To You, Spanish Ladies)

by i_claudia



Series: Check/Mate [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Secret Relationship, The Royal Navy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which ship gossip is (almost) the most exciting thing aboard.</p>
<p>
  <i>Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies<br/>Farewell and adieu, dear ladies of Spain<br/>For we’ve received orders to sail for old England<br/>We hope in a short time to see you again</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell and Adieu (To You, Spanish Ladies)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/67713.html). (14 February 2011)

It is only natural that Navy men, officers and seamen alike, should have secreted away among their effects some token of those dear souls they leave behind on land—often for months, often for half their lives—a portrait to press to one’s bosom when the nights are long or the seas rough, perhaps a shining lover’s lock to kiss for luck before battle. Indeed, the _absence_ of such a token may be more cause for speculation than its presence, for every man has left someone behind, whether a lover or a mother or a daughter, each more precious than life itself. It is tacitly encouraged among the service, to remind men what they are fighting for when the promise of King and Country seems too far thin and stretched.

Captain Emrys of the _Kilgharrah_ , as with many of his rank, embraced this practice fully with a delicately framed portrait kept at the top of his sea chest: regularly, lovingly polished, often removed to be set carefully on his desk while writing or scraping at his violin, and which no man could quite make heads nor tails of.

“Which it isn’t even of a woman,” his steward Gaius was apt to complain, reluctant to let this development foil his penchant for gossip entirely. “It isn’t of anyone at all.”

“It’s trees and mountains,” affirmed one of the midshipmen, who had been unfortunate enough to undergo a private conversation and thorough admonishment by the captain the afternoon before, and thus fortunate enough to see the picture in question. “Some kind of park, I think.”

“Perhaps it was painted by the lady?” someone suggested—for it was well known that the captain did indeed have a lover— _a proper lady friend_ , Gaius called her—though he kept both her existence and identity secret. This only served to excite the interest of his crew further, although none of them would so much as dream of investigating her further than the fond mythology they created with the welcome assistance of their daily ration of grog.

“Her father doesn’t approve,” argued one camp;

“Perhaps she’s Spanish,” supposed another;

“Perhaps she’s _French_ ,” someone whispered, a suggestion met with frowns and universal cries of disapproval.

“That’s enough of that,” Gaius interrupted, stern-faced, blithely ignoring that it was he who had started the speculation in the first place. “The captain deserves better than you idle curs wagging your tongues.”

The gossip, though curbed temporarily, did not abate, and soon it was accepted as fact aboard the _Kilgharrah_ that the captain had been forced to duel to defend the honour of a beautiful lady—had killed her odious bear of a husband in the process and so won her favour—the lady’s family did not approve—they were twice removed from the Spanish king and would not hear of their daughter marrying an Englishman, much less an officer of the British Navy—the captain was forced to communicate in secret with his beloved, who was held captive by her husband’s family—he had learned an ancient code used only by the greatest Grecian warriors with which to do so, and sent the coded letters through a mutual friend in Dover to double their secrecy—he kept her embroidered handkerchief over his heart always.

The Kilgharrahs approved entirely of their captain’s liaison with the unfortunate Spanish lady, and to a man vowed to further his cause in whatever way presented itself to them: this manifested mostly in giving Captain Emrys’s post priority whenever there was an opportunity for mail—which as captain he would have possessed regardless—and demolishing with a certain vigourous pleasure whatever Spanish ship they met in battle in the name of the King, of England, and of their captain’s nameless lady. The man in question noted their interest and their dedication, and though bemused by it, allowed himself to smile at their loyalty when none of them were looking.

Captain Merlin Emrys was currently comfortably ensconced in his cabin, the customary toasted cheese close to hand and his violin only slightly further, finishing a letter which was, indeed, in code, though it was neither ancient nor Greek. Dipping his quill into the inkpot, which was nearly empty, he began again to write, scratching the letters carefully and deliberately onto the paper.

_Was you here_ , he wrote, _you would be perfectly appalled at not only the state of my best coat_ — the particular coat in question, purchased by the addressed party some months earlier, had suffered greatly during an elaborate cat-and-mouse game with a Spanish xebec— _but also at the stories the men have embroidered to speculate on my pursuit of a certain nameless Lady, the details of which I of course cannot tell you, as it would mean certain ruin for the Lady herself and for a great number of honourable people, both in England and abroad._

Merlin paused there, setting down the quill and rubbing at the spot just between the eyes, which ached. There was more truth in the whispers of rumour he had heard than the men believed, which both comforted him—people were more likely to believe what sounded like truth—and gnawed at him terribly, ’til he could barely sleep for it at night.

It was true that his lover had painted the scene he kept on his desk and in his sea trunk, but the hand that had created the mountains and trees was as Spanish as it was female—which was to say, it was neither of the two: far more dangerous a situation than the supposed duel, and far more deadly. It had been a mistake, Merlin thought, to bring anything that indicated the affair away with him, but Arthur had insisted, and when Merlin refused, had slipped it into the bottom of Merlin’s chest, where Merlin had not discovered it until _Kilgharrah_ had put in at Gibraltar, at which point Merlin did not have the strength nor the bitterness of character required to throw it overboard.

Forgetting the letter before him for a moment, Merlin picked up the frame and cradled it carefully, tracing the now-familiar outline of the hills and the red sunset beyond them. Arthur was no great artist: he had been forced as a child to accompany Morgana to her lessons in order to watch the tutor, whom Uther did not trust. But Merlin loved the painting all the more dearly for it, ran his fingers over the amateur brushwork fondly. There was a false back to the frame, within which was hidden a single blond lock of hair, but Merlin did not open it, did no more than smooth his fingers over the hidden join in silent recollection.

They were never sure when their dream might end, whether it might fall apart from circumstance or be unearthed by other men; even the letter-writing which the Kilgharrahs put such store in was an occasional treat rather than a regular comfort. Merlin could not risk more, could not risk any of the hands his letters passed through growing curious about the correspondence. In some ways, Merlin thought wryly, an imprisoned Spanish heiress would have been a far easier affair.

He picked up the quill once more.

_Our cruise is nearly finished, and I will have business in London—Naval affairs, which I suspect can only bore you, but if you might indulge an old friend who has been at sea too long, perhaps you will grant me the favour of a chess game? I have my own set now, carved in some indigenous wood Dr Williams is shocked by and loses no opportunity to lecture me quite sternly about; one would think it was fashioned from the branches of Christ’s cross itself, the way he carries on._

_I hope this letter finds you well, dear friend; remember me to the Lady Morgana and remind her that under no circumstances would a woman—of any standing in society—ever be allowed to join the service, and anyway it is far less fighting and dying for glory than the stories have it and much more eating stale biscuits and staring at unending ocean with not a ship in sight._

_As ever, I remain your affectionate servant,_

_M_

When this had been written—with much stopping and starting, agonising over the wording and extraneous trimming of the quill until it was hardly more than a nub in his hand—Merlin sat back, satisfied that he could write no more and that nothing gave his hand away unduly. He folded and sealed the letter and set to the cheese, which at this point had gone cold, before once more wrapping the painting in the softest of his shirts and setting it carefully in the top of his chest.

“Good night,” he said quietly, and then, noticing that Gaius was hanging about to collect the empty cheese tray and knowing the old steward thought himself unobserved, he added, more softly, nearly unable to hide his smile: “Buenas noches, dear heart.” He shut the chest after that, affecting surprise at turning to find Gaius there—the poor man’s eyes nearly popping from his skull, his eyebrows nearly up to the retreating hair on his forehead—and picking up his fiddle, drawing the bow across the strings with an emotion which, while not quite contentment, was neither very far removed from it.


End file.
